


Supplication

by orphean



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons), Justice League - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Morality, Justice Lords Universe, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:20:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28725741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphean/pseuds/orphean
Summary: ‘You’re so good, Bruce.’ Superman said, his fingers touching his face still, skirting over the edge of his mask, the gloved fingers warm over his cold skin, the touch holy and undeserved. ‘I need you to lead by example. I need you to show that this is right. That we’re right.’
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 10
Kudos: 106





	Supplication

**Author's Note:**

> help evil top Superman is too much fun.
> 
> Xan prompted me with: Bruce + anyone, “Get on your knees and say you’re sorry.”

Batman had known he would come.

Superman landed just inside the entrance of the cave, and Bruce listened to his steps echo as they came closer. He kept working. He kept his breathing level and his heartbeat calm.

‘Bruce.’

He almost never called him by his given name anymore, saving it for when he was chiding him for his mistakes, for when he was deep inside him. In the steel and velvet of his voice, Bruce’s name sounded better.

‘Lord Superman.’ Bruce let his tools fall and turned around.

Superman stood there, his white cape bright in the half-light of the cave. Bruce remembered what he used to look like, when Superman saw himself as _Clark_ , when he would laugh at Barry’s stupid jokes, wearing red and blue. He had been beautiful then, innocent and optimistic and the day to Bruce’s night. Batman looked at him, his white cape and his black suit and the red red of his crest. He was more beautiful now. The hesitation he had always carried was gone, replaced with a steely resolve and an iron will. His eyes seemed darker now, a deep blue that flickered with red, and when he smiled, it wasn’t like the sun. He smiled like justice did, honest and merciless. This was a man who had brought a world to its knees and yet had their gratitude. And Bruce was on his side.

‘You know what you did,’ Superman said, his voice crackling like thunder. He spoke softly, so softly, and Bruce could feel the reprimand in his bones.

‘More force would have been excessive,’ Bruce said. He had been repeating this sentence in his head ever since it happened, a mantra that he might be able to convince Superman of if only he repeated it often enough. ‘I applied the appropriate amount of punishment.’

‘No,’ said the man who was closer to God than anyone Bruce had ever met, ‘I don’t think you did. Don’t you remember what we believe? Don’t you remember what _you_ believe?’

Superman took a step forward and Bruce didn’t flinch. He swallowed down the fear in the back of his throat. He knew Superman could smell it. He knew Superman could hear his body work even as he tried to keep himself in check.

‘I do.’

‘To uphold the big laws, we need to enforce the small laws.’

‘His child was starving. Yes, he was stealing, but only because he had to. It was a crime of necessity.’

‘A crime is a crime, Bruce.’ Superman smiled, like Bruce was a child with foolish notions.

‘What do you want me to do?’

The words _my lord_ sat on his tongue, intoxicating and sweet, but he let them stay there. He waited for the verdict, the order to go and correct his mistakes, the soft chastisement that hurt more because of how gently he spoke, how disappointed he was.

But Superman didn’t tell him to hunt down the shoplifter, to exact the justice he had withheld. Superman touched his cheek, his thumb gentle against the corner of his mouth.

‘Get on your knees and say you’re sorry.’

What else could Bruce do but obey?

‘I’m sorry.’

It was right to apologise; it was right to be sorry. Batman had let Superman down. That shouldn’t happen; that wasn’t how it should be. He should be his right-hand man, his confidante, the one human who would never let him down.

‘You’re so good, Bruce.’ Superman said, his fingers touching his face still, skirting over the edge of his mask, the gloved fingers warm over his cold skin, the touch holy and undeserved. ‘I need you to lead by example. I need you to show that this is right. That we’re right.’

Superman’s touch was a brand, a balm, a blessing that Bruce wasn’t sure he deserved. He closed his eyes under the cowl and sighed into the touch, angling his face to give him access to his chin, to the hollow of his jaw. Superman’s fingers were soft and perfect, touching, claiming, soothing. He brushed his thumb over Bruce’s mouth and Bruce stuttered against the motion, shuddering before he could restrain himself.

‘Do you want to make it up for me, Bruce?’ Superman asked, thumb in the dip of his chin, revealing the wetness of his lip.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you want to be good to me, Bruce?’

‘Yes.’

His gloves were not made of leather, nor of the composite Bruce used for his own suit. They were made of a Kryptonian material, and they felt like silk on Bruce’s lips, against his teeth, over his tongue where Superman pressed two fingers inside, his thumb stroking his chin. Bruce opened his eyes and looked up at him. He curled his tongue and closed his lips around the fingers, tasting dust and dirt and blood. Superman smiled down at him, patient and pleased. He undid his belt almost absent-mindedly, his gaze trained on his fingers fucking into Bruce’s mouth, slowly, deliberately.

Bruce wanted to be good, worthy. He kept his hands on his knees, palms up, waiting in supplication. Superman always took his time when Bruce had let him down, meting out his unexpected generosity with dizzying slowness. Finally, at long last, after forever and a half, he withdrew his fingers, wet between Bruce’s lips, and pressed them into the softness of his jaw, tilting his head up, tilting his head to where it should be. A half-step forward and –

He wasn’t hard yet but he stiffened against Bruce’s lips where he brushed over them, before he moved on and traced over Bruce’s cheekbones, the hollow of his cheek, the dip of his chin. (As he had before, Bruce wondered if it was biological, if Kryptonians marked their mates, if Superman dragged himself across Bruce’s face to claim him. He had never looked in the databases, and he never would. He didn’t want to be proven wrong.) Bruce was almost dizzy with the smell of him, with the way he was growing hard just from this, just from Bruce’s skin against his cock.

‘You’re so good, my love.’ 

Superman tasted like benediction, like forgiveness. Bruce let him set the pace – slowly slowly, inch by inch, pulling out and pushing back inside, moving over Bruce’s cheeks with his own spit, teasing Bruce, testing Bruce. He exhaled through his nose, grateful, when Superman moved his hands, one on the top of his head, thumb wrapped around the base of the pointed left ear of the cowl, the other on his right cheek, fingers splayed, thumb along his jaw. Superman stroked his skin as he fucked his mouth, slow and sweet and an undeserved reward.

There were those who didn’t think that Lord Superman was kind. They didn’t know him like Bruce did. Superman was kind, and loving, and he closed his eyes to listen to the murmured words he blessed him with as he pushed deeper with each movement of his hips. Bruce’s beautiful mind. Bruce’s beautiful mouth. Bruce, beautiful and perfect and obedient and _his_. He was blunt against the back of his throat, pressing but not reaching deeper, and Bruce burned with shame.

‘Bruce,’ Superman whispered and his voice was rain after drought, sunshine after months of winter, ‘relax, breathe, be good for me. You can do it. You want to do this for me, don’t you?’

He wanted this; he wanted to be good. He couldn’t speak with his lips wrapped around Superman, with his tongue pressed against Superman, but he made a noise in his throat, an agreement, an invitation. He felt him twitch against the roof of his mouth and then he was harder, harder still, and Bruce closed his eyes and breathed. As long as he remembered to breathe he’d be fine, he’d be good.

When Superman got where he wanted, when Bruce felt the silk of his uniform against his forehead, he made a noise, the hungry sound of a beast of prey that had been kept caged for too long.

It wasn’t slow, then, it was fast and it was hard and it was deep and Bruce blinked away the tears, Bruce breathed, Bruce was good for Superman. It hurt in all the right ways, but he kept his hands flat on his knees, he stayed where he had been told to be. He didn’t press his palm against the cup of his suit; he didn’t undo his belt and reach down; he didn’t touch himself. If Superman wanted him to be touched, he would tell him to touch.

Bruce could taste that he was close, could taste the tang of salt and sweet in the saliva he was unable to swallow down, the saliva that let Superman fuck him that deep, that hard, that unrelenting. He always pulled out almost the entire way, and Bruce could feel the ridge of his head between his lips before he dove down again, the velvet of his skin against his mouth and tongue and throat. But then Superman pulled out almost the entire way and then completely, and Bruce felt raw, robbed, deprived. His chin was wet with spit and a thread of saliva connected them still. He wanted to lean in, taste again, but Superman held him still and studied his face.

‘What a perfect mess you are.’

Superman grabbed his cape, white and glistening, and ran it over Bruce’s chin, collecting the spit, cleaning him up. Bruce wasn’t sure he wasn’t whining like a bitch in heat.

‘Get up. Show yourself to me.’

He stepped back and wrapped a hand around himself. He flicked his wrist – leisurely, lazily – and watched Bruce undress. His mouth was half-open and his eyes were black. When Bruce was naked but for his cowl and cape and he reached for the clasps to release the cowl, Superman shook his head.

‘No,’ he said and took a step closer. The hand that was not wrapped around himself was reaching for Bruce, palm out, so close to touching him, so close to release some of that torturous need. ‘Oh, Bruce, how beautiful you are for me.’

But he didn’t touch Bruce, keeping his fingers just out of reach. He laughed when Bruce’s cock twitched, almost touching the silk of his gloves. His laugh had always been so beautiful.

‘I want you on the table. On your back. Spread out for me.’

Bruce was grateful for the cape, for the warmth it provided as he lay back on the metal table. His feet were flat against the steel, the cold seeping into his skin.

‘No, down.’

Superman wrapped his fingers – fingers that could crush Bruce and yet never did – around his ankles and pulled him down the table so his feet dangled off the edge, so the soft of the back of his knees pressed against the cold lip of the table. Bruce whined at Superman’s mouth against the inside of his leg, dragging his lower lip from his knee up to almost the top of his thigh, up to almost where he wanted his mouth. He felt Superman’s cold chuckle against his skin. Superman dragged his teeth down his thigh again, travelling over goosebumps and scars and far-too-sensitive skin.

When he finally reached out and touched him, it was with a single finger, tracing the tip, grazing over the slit, slicking wet heat down his length. Bruce didn’t mean to, tried not to, but he twitched his hips in response, seeking friction, seeking touch. Superman clucked his tongue and shook his head, his eyes disappointed and his smile curved.

His palm fit perfectly over the jut of Bruce’s hip, his thumb brushing against the soft skin of Bruce’s testicles, his fingertips curling against Bruce’s hipbone. He grabbed his cape – blinding, holy, virginal – and smiled down at him.

‘Do you deserve this?’ Superman asked.

‘Please.’

‘That’s not an answer, my love.’ Superman said and he pressed his fingers down against his skin. Bruce could feel the bruises forming, waking up under Superman’s touch. He asked again. ‘Do you deserve this?’

Bruce exhaled and he didn’t feel cold, he felt hot, a fever running through his body, a burning that was only eased where he was being touched, where Superman’s hips were against his knees, where Superman’s hand was on his hip.

‘No, I don’t deserve it,’ Bruce admitted, and he swallowed back – saliva? tears? he didn’t know. Superman didn’t draw away at the confession. He had a chance to redeem himself. ‘But I want to be. I want to deserve this; I want to deserve your touch. Please. Please, let me.’

It was Superman’s turn to swallow, deep and intentional. His eyes were an abyss Bruce wanted to fall into.

‘Have you ever begged for anyone else?’ His voice was dark like the depths of space, like the undiscovered oceans.

‘No, no, no,’ Bruce promised, and he felt drunk, like he was drugged and Superman’s touch was the only thing that would make things right again. ‘No, I haven’t; no, I wouldn’t ever; just you. Just you.’

Superman smiled at the answer and he draped his cape over Bruce‘s middle, the silken fabric oh-so-soft against him, the sudden sensation of touch after being so untouched enough to make Bruce whimper again. Superman’s fingers wrapped around the cape, wrapped around Bruce’s length, and he began to work him, slow teasing strokes that Bruce wanted to buck into. He couldn’t move with the hand on his hip pinning his down. He couldn’t think with Superman’s cape wrapped around him. It wasn’t made of any earthly fabric and it felt like water, like satin, like perfection that Superman in his infinite generosity was offering him, a reward he was unworthy of, a reward he prayed to deserve. He was leaking into Superman’s unsullied cape, and he should apologise, he should beg for forgiveness, but he couldn’t beg for that when Superman touched him like that, when each flick of his thumb was bringing him closer to the precipice, closer and closer.

Bruce knew he was talking, he could feel the babble scratch in his desecrated throat, but he couldn’t hear the words, could only beg and offer thanks and ask for release, could only swear his fealty forever, could only pointlessly buck his hip into deeper bruises.

He was almost there and he could feel the brilliance grow behind his eyes, the ecstasy that was indescribable, the release that was all for Superman and all thanks to Superman, when Superman let him go. Bruce dug his fists into his cape and keened, thrust his hips into nothing.

Superman hooked a finger in the neck of his cowl and pulled him up. He could barely breathe with the finger digging against his oesophagus, and his vision felt blurred.

‘You don’t deserve this, remember?’ Superman spoke kindly, like a hunter soothing a skittering animal. He stroked his fingers over Bruce’s cheek, the touch unbearably tender, unbearably soft. He kissed him and Bruce sighed into the kiss, blinked away the tears in his eyes. ‘At least not yet.’

Bruce would never get used to Superman’s speed and the ease with which he could maneuver him into place. In the blink of an eye, Bruce found himself bent over the table, his chest cold against the steel. Another second, and Superman was gone and back again. Bruce braced himself on his elbows as Superman moved his cape out of the way, baring him again. Bruce barely breathed when hands grasped the insides of his thighs and opened him up, spreading him in place.

Superman didn’t hurry. He slicked up his fingers and moved slowly, nudging inside and withdrawing, each push a little deeper but just as insufficient. He kept his gloves on, and Bruce felt that should disgust him, that he should balk at those covered fingers forcing him open. But instead they were perfect, beautiful, and Bruce pushed back against the fingers, begging for more in both words and actions, nearly sobbing at how even with the third finger inside, he avoided his prostate, preparing him but offering no relief.

Finally, finally, _finally_ , Bruce felt Superman’s hands on his hips, lifting him into place and holding him open. His feet were dangling, toes barely touching the ground, and Bruce could only breathe in small gasps, expectant and afraid.

Superman pushed inside, deeper and deeper until he was fully seated. When he grazed over the spot inside Bruce, he saw stars and felt tears roll down his face, escaping the cowl and dripping onto the table. Superman rolled his hips once. Twice. His grip on Bruce’s hips was unyielding, painting his skin in blue and purple.

Soon, there was no time for patience. Superman was unrelentless, unforgiving, his pace cruel and blessed. Time and again, he would fuck Bruce just the way he wanted, right up to the cusp of an orgasm, but when Bruce felt that first kiss of relief Superman would pull away, push too deep, deprive him of release. The world shrunk to just the two of them and the damned cold table, Bruce’s face pressed against the surface now, one leg pushed up onto the table to spread him open. Superman had wrapped Bruce’s cape around his fist, using it as a leash to keep him in place.

‘Touch yourself.’ Superman’s words were cut like glass, sharp and beautiful. Bruce tried, but his pace was gruelling and Bruce could only wrap a hand around himself and could barely stay steady when Superman fucked into him, barely get the friction he needed. Bruce whined and Superman hissed a laugh. ‘You can do better than that, Bruce.’

Bruce could do better than that. He could. He _could_. He almost gasped in relief when Superman took his hand in his and moved for him, touching his balls and stroking up his length, wrapping their fingers together around it. Bruce let Superman move him into place, help him keep his rhythm. Bruce felt his lips against his cheek, along his jaw.

‘I want you to come on my cock,’ Superman said, and Bruce had forgotten that he could talk like that, low and lewd and lascivious, and the words went straight to the pit of his stomach, to where he felt his orgasm grow, close and closer. ‘Come on my cock and I’ll fill you up – like you want me to; like you need me to. You’ll feel me for days and I’ll know when you touch yourself and think of me, when you press down on those bruises that you were begging for, when you fuck yourself and wish it was me. Don’t you see? Don’t you understand, Bruce?’

Bruce didn’t see; Bruce didn’t understand. He was chasing the high of pleasing Superman, of coming for him, of making him proud. He was so close, he was getting there, and he –

‘I’m all you need,’ Superman said and leaned down to kiss him –

– and he was coming, in fireworks and starlight and so hard it hurt, so hard that once he came back down he was shivering and stuttering and mewling against the final thrusts, trying to get away from the force of Superman, getting nowhere and feeling fingers press down on his skin. That tell-tale twitch and Superman’s final low growl and warmth warmth warmth inside him, filling him with heat, claiming him for Superman.

Superman shouldn’t need to shudder, but he did, and somewhere in his wrecked mind Bruce felt proud to cause that full-body tremble. Superman pulled out and covered him with Bruce’s cape. Bruce felt empty and loved, unable to pull his wasted body together, unable to lift his head when he heard Superman move and get dressed again. He felt a hand brush over his cowl, from the tip of his ear down to his jaw. Bruce blinked bleary eyes open and saw Superman look at him, his eyes as kind and clear as Clark’s had always been.

‘My perfect Bat.’

He murmured the words against Bruce’s skin, kissing first his cowl-covered nose, then the corner of his mouth. Bruce’s answering kisses were dishevelled, rough, and Superman laughed softly at the laxness of his mouth. Bruce didn’t have the mind to protest when he undid the clasps to the cowl and pushed it off, brushing inhuman fingers over his matted hair, following the curve of his ear with a fingertip. Bruce felt Superman’s breath, cool and perfect, as he kissed his neck and worried his earlobe between his teeth. Soon, he pulled away and stepped back. Bruce watched him with unfocused eyes.

‘There’s a meeting at the Watchtower in an hour.’ And that was the voice of Lord Superman, not of the gentle lover. It was unyielding and brokered no argument. ‘I won’t have you miss it.’

Bruce wanted to promise that he wouldn’t, that he’d be there, but he couldn’t get his mouth to work, couldn’t connect his brain with the words. He watched Superman leave. He knew he was right. Superman was all Batman needed.


End file.
